


Sniper Stories

by Eos



Category: Justified
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-05
Updated: 2011-06-05
Packaged: 2017-10-20 03:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/208320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eos/pseuds/Eos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim has a knack for telling himself stories about his targets...just not the kind of stories the Army taught him to tell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sniper Stories

Surveillance was not a favorite job among the marshals. Sitting around doing nothing didn’t sound so bad but it was boring. Downright tedious, in fact. Tim didn’t particularly like it anymore than anyone else, but he was particularly good at it. A childhood spent learning to make himself invisible around his father had uniquely prepared him for the demands of his job. He could be still and silent for hours on end...even there, perched on a ridge above Boyd’s church camp.

Boyd had chosen his location well. Tim had had a hell of a time finding a spot close enough to provide a clear line of sight but far enough away that the ‘flock’ wouldn’t be aware of his presence. He sat on a rock in a patch of clear ground under the boughs of an evergreen, night vision scope in his hands. He watched with only the mosquitoes for company and that suited him...aside from the mosquito part. Behind him was a small pack filled with the few supplies he’d need for the night. It wasn’t the best location in terms of creature comforts but it was better than watching from a van that smelled like greasy fast food wrappers and dirty sneakers, and it was a helluva lot better than some sandy outcropping in Afghanistan.

In the clearing below, most of the men had turned in for the night. If the night followed the pattern of the previous two, that meant hours of watching nothing more exciting than the occasional stirring of a tent flap in the breeze. Tim preferred that to some of the possible alternative scenarios. He had his rifle close to hand, of course. There was no plan to shoot Boyd per se, or any of his men, but there were a dozen ex-cons in the camp and just one marshal on the ridge. If things went pear-shaped, Tim wouldn’t hesitate. He’d be just as happy if he didn’t have to so much as chamber a round though.

Speak of the devil and Boyd emerged from his tent. He’d shed the buttoned up jacket and the buttoned up shirt. His barbwire tattoos were visible below the sleeves of plain white t-shirt which was neatly tucked into a pair of black jeans. He stood there, all white and black in the light of the moon and that amused Tim because from all he’d heard--mostly from Raylan, who could be said to be biased--Boyd Crowder was a man for whom black and white didn’t exist. He lived wholly in the gray shades of life.

Long, quiet nights were perfect for sniper stories and Tim had a knack for stories. Like the ability to blend with his surroundings, imagination was a survival skill he’d honed in childhood. In truth, his very first sniper story had painted his sorry-assed father as his target. He’d only been fourteen at the time and hadn’t had the skill or the nerve to act. Most of the time, he thought that had probably been for the best.

Anyway, he wasn’t interested in that kind of story for that kind of surveillance. In that night’s story, Boyd had wandered off into the dark shadows surrounding the camp, and he wasn’t alone among the trees; Raylan was with him. His hat was hung from a nearby branch and his arms were braced against the tree trunk, jeans around his knees. Boyd’s hand was at Raylan’s hip, nearly hidden under his shirt tail. Raylan’s head was bowed, the subtle twitch of muscles in his jaw that accompanied each roll of Boyd’s hips the only sign of the effort it took to stay silent.

Tim easily imagined the soft, panted words Boyd spoke and the muffled groans that struggled to escape Raylan’s throat as the jerk of Boyd’s hips grew faster and harder. He could almost feel the way the lichen-stained bark abraded Raylan’s palms, leaving them raw and sore. And he definitely felt the sharp sting of teeth when Boyd bit down on Raylan’s shoulder and Raylan’s head jerked back.

He showed no outward sigh of his vivid imaginings. His arms were resting on his thighs, hands hanging between his knees. He was calm, alert but relaxed. He never injected himself into his stories, not even back when that was the way the Rangers had taught him. He’d instinctively known it would be counter-productive. He might not be able to take the shot if he’d grown too involved with his fictional partner. Beyond that…. A faint rustling announced Raylan’s arrival and that... _that_ interruption was the other reason he didn’t allow himself to get too engrossed in his stories.

“He do anything untoward?” Raylan asked, his voice hushed as he took a knee next to Tim.

“That depends.” Tim blinked and kept his eye to the scope. “Does preaching ten hours a day count as untoward?”

“The man does love the sound of his own voice.” Raylan sounded both resigned and maybe...admiring?

“He knows how to turn a phrase,” Tim agreed. “If I were a homeless ex-junkie ex-con--and stupid--I might be inclined to listen to what he says myself.”

There was a moment of silence before Raylan returned from wherever his thoughts had taken him. “Anyway, Art’s pulling the plug--can’t justify the manpower.”

“Boyd ain’t gonna do anything anyway. He knows I’m here.” Tim had no proof of that but he knew it in his gut, the way Boyd must know, in his gut, that someone was watching.

Raylan shrugged after a second. “Maybe.” He looked around. “You want help getting this stuff back to your truck?”

“I got it.” Tim finally turned his head just enough to look at Raylan. “You coulda just called.”

“Cell service is patchy in these parts, and non-existent in this holler.” Raylan’s hand pressed down on Tim’s shoulder just for a moment as he straightened from his crouch. “Anyway, guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As Raylan walked away, Tim simply grunted a response and began to pack up. Efficiently, because that’s the way he did everything--not always with great enthusiasm, but without wasted effort. He slung the pack on his back. He carried the scope in his hand as he moved away from the observation site. He didn’t go far, though, slipping into the space under the wind sculpted limbs of a hemlock tree. He brought the scope to his eyes and aimed it at the clearing, where Boyd met Raylan near the fire pit. Their heads leaned close, bowed, as they exchanged quiet words. Then both men moved into the shadows behind the tent where even the night vision scope couldn’t follow them. Tim watched the shadows a little longer and then began the trek back to his SUV.

The night was still young. There was plenty of time to drive home. Time to get drunk. Still time to get laid. Time for anything he felt like doing, just as long as he could make it to the office sober and focused when the sun rose again. He wondered what Raylan would make time for that night. And he wondered what he’d see if he asked to see the palms of Raylan’s hands in the morning.


End file.
